Escape
by Annalore
Summary: John has always been Punk's escape, but there are some things you can't ever really get away from. High School. AU. Punk/Cena, slash.


**Warning**: References to abuse.

**Note**: I was away with no computer for five days and stuck on The Winding Road. I tweeted that I felt inspired to write something, but I wasn't sure what, and JacAlley provided me with a prompt. Then this happened. I would blame her, but honestly, it's not her fault.

* * *

Cigarette butts litter the back patio. Punk cleans them up, nearly gagging from the smell, cringing from the pain in his arms every time he bends over. It's almost more than he can bear, but it's important he gets this place cleaned up before his sisters get home tomorrow.

It's not like they don't know. They all _know_. Like beer cans on the bathroom vanity, smoke and ash and even screams are constants in their house. Their parents don't care what they're doing, Mike's off at college, he doesn't give a fuck, but Punk wants to keep things nice for the girls. He would give those girls everything if he could, he would give the world for them.

When he's done, he gives the yard one last look. It's a tiny, closed in space, but he remembers when they used to have a swing set and he'd push Cassie until she squealed with delight. It's long gone now, and the grass has gone to weed, has dead spots from a brush fire the summer before.

It's only when he's satisfied that everything is in order that he goes in the house and washes his hands, twice, then grabs his bag and gets the hell out of there. The late spring evening air is cool and clean as he speeds away from his house on his bike. The farther away he gets, the better he can breathe, but he doesn't feel completely right until he reaches John's door after a half hour of hard pedaling.

John's house couldn't be more different than his. It's set back from the road on an acre of landscaped lawn. There's a long driveway, a carefully maintained garden spilling over with flowers, and out back there's a flagstone patio and a gas grill that nobody's ever tried to steal. Punk always feels a bit out of place here, like a servant pretending to be a guest, but John has never treated him that way.

John doesn't question the way he just shows up, he just lets Punk in the door, leads him up to his room and shuts the door behind them. The house is empty; John's parents are away in Boston visiting John's older brothers for a couple weeks. They trust John, even though they probably shouldn't, because Punk's lost track of how many times they've had sex in this room, in John's bed. His first time was right here, on a Wednesday afternoon while John's parents were still at work.

He questions where John fits in with his newly developing devotion to straight edge, but he figures they're in a relationship, sort of. He knows neither one of them sees anyone else. John helps him forget the things he needs to forget, and he fulfills every sexual fantasy John could ever think of having. All in all, it's an even trade, and one he's come to rely on to get by.

The light is off in the room, so he feels safe in pulling off his long sleeved shirt, but John has eyes like a hawk. He lets out a gasp that Punk knows has nothing to do with his new nipple piercings, which John has already seen and appreciated. He honestly hadn't thought the burns were that bad. They hurt like a bitch, but he's had worse. He feels his hopes for the evening rapidly disappearing as John marches him back down to the kitchen and inspects his skin under the bright lights.

John is a Boy Scout, an actual, literal Boy Scout, and a volunteer EMT to boot. Punk sits shivering on a stool as John applies disinfectant and salve and bandages, all without daring to make a protest that might make John force him into a car and drag him to a hospital, or call the police. John always wants to call the police.

By the time the ordeal is over, he's stiff and sore, and John has to help him back into his shirt. He grits his teeth against the stretching of his burned skin, not letting a sound of pain escape even though John has mostly given up trying to get him to take pain killers.

Lying in between cool, clean sheets, John asks him if he wants to talk about it. Punk thinks of a glowing cigarette in the gloom of the wood paneled den, steaming kettles of water in the kitchen, cigarette butts on the back lawn where his sisters used to play. He feels his eyes burning and desperately wishes he were anywhere else, as if John hasn't already seen the worst he has to offer, as if John needs to be told to know exactly what's going on.

He has a habit of running his left hand up and down his right arm where the worst of the scarring is. When John notices, he gets a frown on his face and a tightness around his eyes, and he'll do anything to get Punk to forget. He'll tell stupid jokes or crass jokes, or make sexual innuendos or sexual advances. He'll do anything but ask about it, and Punk feels a bit relieved and a bit betrayed that he finally has, and vastly unprepared. He cries himself to sleep in John's arms.

When he wakes up, he hurts even worse than before, and John isn't there. His eyes are full of grit and it's full light out again, but he doesn't worry, because John's parents won't be back until Tuesday and nobody expects him at home. He takes a piss, then shuffles down the stairs. He'd rather avoid John, but he's not sure how he could make it out of the house without him noticing, so he figures he should probably face this head on.

John is in the kitchen, doing homework at the breakfast bar despite it being early on a Saturday morning. Punk hovers in the doorway, feeling more out of place than usual in the large, airy space. John is sitting on the stool he used to tend Punk's wounds the night before.

"I made breakfast," John says without looking up.

Punk's stomach growls and he's reminded of the fact that he didn't have dinner the night before. He walks into the kitchen warily and sits perpendicular to John. "I'm thinking of becoming a vegan," he says with no real conviction. John grimaces and pushes him a plate of eggs and bacon with a biscuit on the side.

Cooking is just another thing John's good at, and his mom bakes like a dream. Punk inhales the food while John studies, seemingly content to ignore what happened the night before. Punk isn't sure if it's reverse psychology or just a coping strategy, but it puts him at ease, lulls him into a sense of security. John makes him bring down his guard faster than anyone he's ever known.

On the surface, they shouldn't work. John is all American, with a crew cut and a square jaw. He's the captain of the football team and all around good guy. Punk is a loner, the weird kid with the piercings and the dyed hair. The smart ass with the sharp tongue. Maybe they don't work. They've known each other for a year, ever since John moved from Boston, have been sleeping with each other for half that time, but he'd still be hard pressed to call John his friend, much less his boyfriend.

He doesn't think he's gay, exactly, but he loves John's body, the strength and muscle of it, the large hands that are surprisingly gentle when they touch him. He loves the way John's dick feels inside him, or in his mouth when he goes down on him. And John has made it clear that he gets off on Punk's body, his hair, his piercings, on everything that makes him different from almost everyone he's ever met.

It's everything else they have a problem with. John's house might be his haven, but they hardly acknowledge each other at school, and although Punk sometimes wonders what it would be like to make out with John in the quad at lunch like the other kids do, he never makes that kind of move, and John never hints that he wants that either.

"There's someplace I want to take you," John says, laying his pencil down on the counter. Punk automatically stiffens. He's preparing to tell John he doesn't want to see a doctor or a counselor or the police when John raises a hand defensively. "You'll like it, I promise."

Over the months, John has developed a pretty good idea of what Punk doesn't like, aided by cold ridicule and dead stares, so Punk decides to go along, ignoring the instinct that screams at him not to trust.

Despite his protests that it actually belongs to his parents, John has his own car. It's not only his, but it was made more recently than ten years ago and has no chips in the paint. John, naturally, is a very responsible driver. They put Punk's bike on the rack on the back, the one that Punk suspects John installed because of him, and drive into the city.

"Someplace" turns out to be a tattoo parlor. It's not a dive by any means; it's bright and clean with exquisite artwork on the walls. John has an appointment, and after a short wait they talk to the owner for over an hour about designs, about tattooing over scarred skin and what to expect. Punk remembers telling John about his interest in getting sleeves done, probably months ago. At the time, he couldn't imagine turning his pain into anything beautiful, but when he peels his shirt off self-consciously, the shop owner seems convinced that it can be done.

John pays for the consultation. Punk feels guilty, because John's not really _rich_, despite being a lot better off than he is, and feels his dream slipping away again at the same time. The kind of work he wants done, the kind of work John showed him was possible, can't come cheap, and although he has a job, everything he makes goes towards his sisters or saved for their future.

But still, maybe it's the thought that counts, he decides. He leans into John as they walk to the car and John wraps his arm around Punk's waist. When they're driving down the highway, Punk stares at his knees and says, before he can stop himself, "The tea kettle was an accident."

To John's credit, he keeps the car in its lane with only a slight swerve. Punk feels like he might throw up anyway. It's the first time he's ever verbalized any of this. "I don't see how any of that could be an accident," John says, his voice tight with restrained anger.

"My mom was boiling water. I was arguing with my dad about cleaning up the house - Cass and Chel are coming home from camp today. I shoved him. I shouldn't have." He wraps his hand protectively around his bicep where the steam hit it, careful not to touch even though it's bandaged and covered with a long-sleeved shirt.

"But the other stuff. The cigarette burns. That _wasn't_ an accident." John isn't really asking a question, Punk understands that. He already knows, has doubtless seen things exactly like it before. But he wonders if John knows what burning flesh smells like, what your own flesh smells like when it burns and you just stand there and let it happen.

"Pull over," he demands in an urgent whisper. John reacts quickly, he doesn't have to repeat himself. Within seconds, he's puking up his breakfast into the grass and John's hands are on his back and in his hair, trying to soothe him. John whispers nonsense and doesn't look even a little grossed out. He finds a bottle of water somewhere in his trunk and Punk rinses and spits, then they just sit in the car on the side of the road for a little while, watching as other cars pass.

John drives back to his own house instead of taking Punk home. He doesn't press, just leads Punk to his bedroom, gets him seltzer and makes him undress and lie down. Punk feels like an invalid, but he allows it to happen, because he feels weak and shaky and it's been ages since anyone has taken care of him. John feels his forehead for a fever, practically tucks him in, then turns out the light and draws the curtains.

Punk's struggle with insomnia is getting worse all the time, but he never seems to have a problem at John's house. Sometimes the hour or two he sleeps there is the best he gets all night, and right now all he wants to do is sleep. He closes his eyes and John kisses him on the forehead. The next thing he's aware of is the sound of John's voice, low in the background. When he opens his eyes, John is sitting at his desk, talking on his phone. The light in the room has shifted; he figures it must be early afternoon.

"Maybe next time," John says, then hangs up as he pulls his phone away from his ear and drops it on the desk.

"Who was that?" Punk asks, his voice dry and cracked. He bites his lip, but too late to prevent the question he has no real right to ask. John swivels in his chair and it's like his entire face lights up when he sees Punk awake.

"Nobody, just some guys from the team," he says dismissively as he walks across the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He picks up the glass of seltzer from the night table and hands it to Punk. Punk takes a sip automatically. It's flat, but he can still taste bile in his throat, so he finishes it off anyway. "If you'd rather be somewhere else…" he says, pushing the blanket away.

John stops him by wrapping his fingers around Punk's hand. "I'd rather be here," he says with a sincerity that veers into corny, which is just a part of his charm. "So don't even think about it."

"Yeah, because I'm a laugh a minute," Punk grumbles as he sits up, though secretly he's glad John chooses him. He knows the kind of guys John hangs with, knows that virtually nobody would say no to them. Just kids who don't give a fuck, like him, and people with integrity, like John.

"You're my boyfriend," John says, nonplussed. "I love you."

Punk's stomach drops, and for a second he's afraid he's about to throw up again. "Don't say that," he says through gritted teeth. John opens his mouth to protest, but Punk cuts him off. "_Don't_," he says viciously, wrapping his arms around his waist and leaning forward. "Don't, don't, don't…" He doesn't realize he's rocking back and forth until John's arms stop him.

"I won't," John murmurs, holding him close, rubbing his back in slow circles. "I won't, okay. I'm sorry."

John apologizes for everything, his mistakes, other people's mistakes, acts of God, things that don't even have anything to do with him. Punk comes from a world where you don't apologize for anything, especially not if it's your fault. He has a hard time imagining the incredible burden of being sorry, except for now, except for when he hears the panic in John's voice, the rapid backpedaling.

He remembers when he used to be that way. He can trace welts on his shoulders, cuts on his arms, that he blamed himself for, that he tried to argue his way out of. He has burns he tried to avoid, when the sick fear that rose in his belly was only for himself. Now he's scared, fucking terrified, that it will happen to his sisters, so he lets it happen to him instead. He can't let it happen to John either, he won't leave John with scars of his making.

He kisses John like his life depends on it. He almost feels like it does. He's so used to hearing "I love you" as an excuse, as a throwaway phrase that means nothing. It makes him think of the cherry lollipops he used to get at the doctor's office when he went in for stitches, the cherry ice cream his mom would buy him on the way home. That stopped at about the same time as the "I love you"s did. He hasn't heard it in years, and he's so shocked to hear John say it to him that he can't even process the idea of John feeling it for him.

John breaks the kiss, holds Punk at an arm's length. He looks sad and concerned and older than his eighteen years. He's been nothing but supportive this whole time, and Punk realizes that even though he doesn't think of John as his boyfriend, John has always treated him like one. John has always been there for him, from afterschool quickies to late night phone calls, from lying on the sofa watching baseball to bandaging wounds and trying to make him get help. John has been more than a partner, he's been a lifeline.

"I'm your boyfriend," he repeats to John.

John nods and smiles, his face shedding years of worry, his dimples popping. "Yeah," he says, cupping Punk's cheek in his hand. "You're my boyfriend. And I want you to know how much I care for you."

He knows John cares. Part of the problem is how much John cares for him. John knows his hopes and dreams, the things he hates, the things he's passionate about. John makes him forget to the point where he almost feels safe enough to remember. Where he can almost bear to talk about it. But despite this morning, he's not ready to open the floodgates yet. He still needs time, but he doesn't want to make John wait.

"Show me, then," he tells John, his voice low and intimate, making it clear exactly what he means.

John looks at him searchingly. "Are you sure?" he asks.

Punk can understand why he's asking. He might not want to have sex with someone the same day he'd seen them throw up on the side of a highway, either. "I'm not sick, John. I feel fine."

John shakes his head with impatience. "That's not what I meant. Phil… are you sure?"

The way John's voice sounds when he says Punk's name, the one he normally can't bear to hear from anyone but his little sisters, hits him like a freight train. He can almost believe, hearing the emotion in John's voice, that love, that kind of love, is real. "I'm sure," he says. His eyes are stinging and he's afraid he's about to cry for the second time in as many days.

John touches him like he's made of porcelain, like he's both fragile and valuable. He helps him undress, taking care with his bandages. Punk lies on his back and John takes his time touching and kissing every part of his body, from his toes up. When he gets to Punk's arms, he pauses and just looks. Punk fights the urge to shy away, to hide the roadmap of scars from John's judging eyes. "I think the dragon would look good… here," John says, trailing a finger down Punk's left arm, and tears really do start to well in Punk's eyes.

If he ever needed proof that John gets him, here it is. John knows where his scars come from, knows how he feels about them, and does his best to change it. John's the last person he'd expect to see in a tattoo parlor, but he took Punk there, allowed him to see that a dream of his is still in reach. No one's ever done something that thoughtful for him, ever. John looks past the surface, past the damaged, broken person, and sees what he could be.

John looks at him, a question in his eyes. Punk nods, and John kisses his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks. When he kisses Punk's mouth, his tongue is salty with Punk's tears, but he doesn't stop.

He enters Punk slowly, and to Punk, it somehow feels like the first time, except their actual first time was hurried and awkward, and now John knows his body so well, and John says he loves him. As John moves inside him, he kisses Punk's face, and Punk wraps his arm around John's back, and they look into each other's eyes.

The pleasure that builds up in the pit of his belly is intense, but almost incidental. Punk likes all the ways John has ever had him, hard and fast, rough and dirty, even slow and teasing, but this, this is something entirely different. John touches his dick, stroking it in exactly the way he likes, and he comes gasping, his fingers pressing white spots into the skin on John's back. John follows him, his face contorting with something almost like pain as he opens his mouth, then closes it. Punk kisses him to stop him from thinking about the words he wants to say.

They lie there in a tangle of limbs, and for once, Punk feels no impulse to move. He has nowhere else to be, and nobody is about to interrupt them. John is running his hand through Punk's hair, watching him with wonder in his eyes, as if he'll never get tired of it. And Punk feels loved, he feels safe.

"My mom used to say she loved me," he says in a small voice. "But that was only when my dad would hurt me."

He feels like all the air has left his lungs, like he could be crushed by the pressure of those words. But John's there. John kisses his forehead, brushes tears from his eyes, and never says he understands, but Punk knows that he does. John doesn't say he'd never hurt him. He doesn't have to.

Punk yawns and John pulls him in closer and tucks Punk's head against his chest. "Sleep," John murmurs. "Been asleep half the day," Punk responds, resisting, but it's a battle he's already losing. Even as he dozes off, he's sure John isn't doing the same, that John is still watching him like he has to protect him. Like he can.

When he wakes up, he's lying more next to John than on top of him, and John is on the phone again. At first, Punk only catches every few words, but he realizes that it's John's mom on the other end. "… with Punk…" he hears John say. He tries to pull away, but John holds him in place. "Last night," he says into the phone. Punk suspects that it's about him. "Talk to you later," John says after another minute, then hangs up. He puts the phone, the cordless house phone, back on his night table. John's parents call there when they're away because they don't want to embarrass John in front of his friends by calling his cell in case he's out. Punk suspects that John wouldn't be embarrassed.

"My mom," John says unnecessarily. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"No, that's—" he starts, then cuts himself off. "Does she _know_?" he asks, sitting up abruptly.

"They know we have sex," John admits readily, though with a flush of his cheeks that implies he's not as okay with that as he wants to be. "My parents trust me, I can't just…"

"Jesus, John." Punk is horrified, though he's not sure exactly why. John's parents have always been decent to him, but he always assumed that would be different if they knew what was really going on. The few girls he's dated all had fathers who hated the idea of him with their daughters.

"Are you—you're not mad, are you?" John never seems to mind Punk's anger when it comes to the serious shit, but this, he's worried over.

"No. I don't know." Punk picks at the blanket. "My parents don't even know you exist." With Punk's parents, they both know it's better that way, though sometimes he wishes he could parade John in front of them, whether to shock them or to beg for their approval, he doesn't know.

John sits up slowly, takes Punk's hand in his and holds it. "You know my mom likes you. She doesn't bake all those muffins just for me."

There are always muffins in John's house. Sometimes Punk brings them home by the dozen, hides them in his room and savors them, packs them with Cassie and Chaleen's lunches. But if he ever gave it a thought, it was just one of those weird things about John, nothing to do with him. But now…

He looks up quickly, a cold panic running through his veins. "Does she know about—'

"No," John denies just as quickly. "God, no, I would _never_…" He shakes his head for emphasis and Punk relaxes. People may know, people may talk, but he trusts John.

John drags Punk into his arms, presses his forehead to Punk's shoulder. "She thinks you're good for me," he mumbles against Punk's skin.

"_I'm _good for _you_?" he asks incredulously. That's something he never thought he'd be accused of being. One thing the world seems to agree on is his status as the bad seed.

"I had a pretty bad break up, back in Boston. I…" John breathes out, then breathes in shakily. "That's not important," he says, trying to pull back. Punk doesn't let him go, instead drags him back down to the bed instead.

"It's important," Punk says. He has a hard time imagining someone hurting John, not only that John would let them, but that anyone would want to. He's so open and honest and _nice_. The idea hurts him even more than he thought it would. "Tell me."

He can see that John would rather not, but some sense of honor, a sense of quid pro quo for the things that Punk has told him, makes him do it anyway. John tells him about the boy who used him and cheated on him, broke his heart, how he pretty much gave up on dating after that and how his mom worried that he would never find anyone else, until he was assigned a class project with Punk and had to spend time with him.

"And no matter what I told myself about not becoming involved, I couldn't resist you," John says in a near whisper. It surprises Punk, because he'd felt the same way.

Punk remembers the first time he realized something was going on. He'd been lying on John's bed, text books piled around him, talking nonstop, despite John's obvious lack of interest, about a concert he wanted to go to. He doesn't even remember which band it was, but he remembers brushing his hair out of his eyes, looking up at John to make a point. John had given him an odd look, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Punk's. Punk had never kissed another guy, hadn't even realized John was into guys, but John had acted like it was no big deal, so he did too, and things had just kept happening like that.

They talk quietly until Punk notices what time it is and realizes he has to get home. John looks disappointed, but knows better than to try to stop Punk from leaving. He sits on the lid of the closed toilet as Punk showers in cool water. The sting of the burns is a fresh betrayal, a reminder of the place he's about to go, because he'd almost forgotten about them. John carefully pats his injured skin dry and replaces the bandages, and seems pleased by the way he's been healing so far.

By the time they get in the car, Punk's stomach is growling, so John stops at a fast food place and they sit in the parking lot eating. "I meant what I said about going vegan," Punk says as he takes a bite of his bacon double cheeseburger. "I'll buy Boca Burgers next time I'm at the store," John tells him. He sounds unconvinced, but Punk is sure that he actually will do it, if only to prove a point.

John stops three blocks from Punk's house like he always does. It's not just that Punk doesn't want his family to know about John. These houses are just like the ones on his street, just like the one he lives in, but he hates the thought of John seeing the actual place he goes home to, the sagging front steps, peeling paint, gate hanging loose on a rusting fence.

John kisses him goodbye, and Punk wishes he didn't have to go, wishes he could just run away to John's. But his sisters will be waiting for him, and he's the only one who loves them. One more kiss, and he opens the car door, prepares to go.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" John asks, keeping him in place for a minute longer.

"Babysitting," he answers, though he'd love to spend the time with John. "Working."

"Call me," John says. He's sure John would call him every chance he got, leave messages, send dopey little texts, but Punk doesn't have a cell, and he doesn't use his home phone if he can help it. "I'll take the three of you out for lunch."

Punk is momentarily surprised by the offer, though he really shouldn't be. John is probably great with kids. Punk knows he does a lot of volunteering. But the fact that John is willing to spend time with two ten year olds that mean nothing to him to spend time with him melts Punk's heart even farther.

He kisses John again, hard and fast, then pulls back and gets out of the car before he can stop himself. He doesn't give John any other answer. John watches him through the mirror as he grabs his bag from the back and takes his bike off the rack. John always waits until he disappears around the corner to start the engine. Punk stops and watches him drive away sometimes, but not this time.

This time, he looks straight ahead and tries to gather the strength he needs to go back to that place. He knows one day soon he'll have to find a way to get them all out, and John won't be able to do that for him. No matter how much John cares, no matter how much John may think he loves him, he won't be there forever.


End file.
